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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518651">Sprinklers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyBlue/pseuds/SunnyBlue'>SunnyBlue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batbrothers (DCU), Batbrothers (DCU) Bonding, Batfamily (DCU), Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Damian Wayne, Protective Older Brothers, Protective Tim Drake, Self-Indulgent, everyone loves each other ok, i have a problem with with making the batfamily love each other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:00:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518651</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyBlue/pseuds/SunnyBlue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim has a lot of hopes for his family, but more than anything, he hopes that they'll be okay without him. Because he's definitely about to die in this dingy warehouse in front of his little brother. </p><p>He just hopes Damian knows that he cares.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown &amp; Cassandra Cain &amp; Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd &amp; Damian Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Damian Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd &amp; Damian Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1412</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Fanfic Library</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sprinklers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Am I supposed to be doing schoolwork or updating my other fic? Yes. </p><p>Am I doing those things? No.</p><p>Do I want anything more than for this disaster family to be happy and love each other? Of course not. I have priorities.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Next time you volunteer your services, I’m declining,” Damian mutters sharply, risking a peek over a huge wooden crate they’re hiding behind to take stock of their assailants. Noting the ever-increasing number as more and more goons pour through a door at the other end of the warehouse, he reconsiders and adds, “or killing you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim huffs a breathless laugh. He wants to make a joke about how Damian had already tried that, but considering the blood rushing out of the gaping hole in his torso, he figures that might be in bad taste right now. With every sluggish blink, he can feel his eyes rolling in his skull, can feel the pinprick numbness beginning to invade his fingertips. Breathing is hard. Tim doesn’t think it should be this hard. That’s probably bad, right? Breathing is good. Not breathing is bad. Difficulty breathing is halfway in between those, though, so maybe it’s neutral. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Red Robin?” A voice hisses from his left side, and he can feel the hand hovering over his shoulder before it retracts in favor of the voice. “Red Robin, report.” Harsh, closed off. Just the way Damian likes his relationships, although he’s gotten a lot better in these past few years. Tim knows him, though, much to his little brother’s chagrin, and he could hear that miniscule tilt to his voice, just a slight modulation, that told him everything he needed to know. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That bad, huh?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Not that bad,” Tim says, lying through his teeth, and while normally Tim can get people to believe nearly anything he says, he’s not exactly on his A-game right now. “Little dizzy.” He tries to shift slightly and a rush of pain tears through him, searing his raw nerves and coating his vision in inky black spots. He shudders hard, which only causes him more pain, but it was involuntary and he couldn’t really be mad at his body for freaking out a bit right now. A second later, he’s back, tasting copper on his lips, and now the hand </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> on his shoulder, gripping maybe a bit too firmly, but he latches onto it, uses it to drag himself around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drake?” Damian hiss-whispers, and this time there’s a definite edge to it, like the kid stopped trying to fight it just a little bit. “Drake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...I’m here,” he croaks, and he’s gotta say it really doesn’t feel all that convincing when his voice sounds like it’s been dragged behind a truck on a gravel road. He swallows hard and tries again, more solid this time. “I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian’s grip on his shoulder loosens slightly, but he doesn’t say anything, just peeks back up over the crate and bites his lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim’s eyes roll his way. “More guys?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian nods reluctantly. He doesn’t look at Tim. “Thirty-seven and climbing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim wants to nod but thinks it won’t end up well for him, so he hums an affirmation instead. He doesn’t like making noise in the field when he doesn’t have to; it’s uncomfortable, feels like he’s just opening himself up as a target. Then again, he is here doing this, so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks and realizes with a frustrated curl of his toes that it’s taking too long to open his eyes on the other side of that blink. He gets them open this time, before Damian notices, but once the kid did eventually notice (probably sooner rather than later, knowing him) Tim would lose whatever meager control he had over the situation right now. There was no way he could walk out of this himself, and he knew Damian couldn’t lift him for any length of time. Both of their emergency beacons were activated, courtesy of the kid slowly learning that asking for help wasn’t instant failure, but they had been blinking away for ten minutes now with no response as the building just filled up and up with people. Something in the building was their blocking comms, and Tim would hack it away and everything, but also he’s weak enough from blood loss that he can’t really lift his arms at the moment. All these crates are full of guns, Tim knows, that was the point of the giant thug crossover event meet-n-greet (was it like criminal Comic Con? Oh, shit, Tim would totally sneak into criminal Comic Con), and he doesn’t really like the idea of all of these assholes having essentially infinite access to more weapons if the Bats kick the ones they’re holding out of their hands. Tim’s point is that there’s no way they fight these dudes and win, at least not right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he tells Damian as much, he’s met with a hiss of “Well, what else are we supposed to do? Politely ask them to leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim chuckles and swallows, trying to remove the grating rasp from his voice. It doesn’t work. “No, Robin,” he says flatly, because he just can’t muster the exasperation he was aiming for. “...Need to go get help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian snorts, but there’s some kind of tremor lying underneath. “As if I could lift you. You’d skewer me with your ridiculous elbows before we made it twenty feet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim looks down at the hand he’s trying to press to his wound. It’s letting up, no matter how many times he redoubles his strength. Damian knows what he meant, of course he does, but if this is how it really has to be, he’ll spell it out for him. “Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>we, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Robin,” he says quietly. “You.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian’s attention snaps over to him and Tim sees that fire burning in his eyes and </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he looks so much like Bruce. Tim thinks of the day when he first met the kid (read: when the kid first tried to kill him), stretching out his welcoming hand and looking into those forest green eyes for any hint of kindness or understanding or openness and not finding it, finding instead only burning fury at Tim’s existence. Now, Damian -- his </span>
  <em>
    <span>brother </span>
  </em>
  <span>-- looked at him with that same fury, but now there was more behind it, caring and concern and fear and, dare he say it, some tiny slice of love for the boy bleeding out in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not. Happening,” Damian bites out, and refocuses, or pretends to refocus, on the goons in the warehouse with them. “I’ll try to hack into the building’s generators and cut the power,” he says, only half to Tim, and Tim knows the kid will find out in five seconds flat that this building isn’t on generators and if he cuts the whole power grid at once it could kill dozens of people in the city. He sees the moment when this exact realization crosses Damian’s face, and he angrily swipes away the holoscreen for his wrist computer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Robin…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up, Drake,” the boy hisses. “The sprinklers could make a viable distraction,” he mutters to himself again, immediately turning to search the ceiling, and Tim sees the moment when he realizes that this warehouse is old as shit and not up to code, and therefore only had a few scattered sprinklers that would do little more than piss them off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damian.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, the boy ignores him. “My smoke bombs would render them unable to see,” he says, and then he peeks back over the crate and Tim sees the moment when he confirms their weapons and it settles in that as good as Damian is, he can’t get past fifty guys with semi-automatics with just a smokescreen; even if they fire into it blindly, he’ll be swiss cheese by the time the air clears. Tim winces at the image.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy presses on, hands flying across his utility belt, but his fingers are fumbling, movements clumsier than Tim has ever seen. “I can- I can-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dami,” Tim cuts him off , his head lolling weakly in his brother’s direction, and finally the boy stops, drags in a breath, meets Tim’s eyes with his own, and Tim stares at them with that same searching gaze he always has. The fire is dying down; something else is drowning it, something foreign on Damian’s face. Tim gives him a small, genuine smile. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian recoils sharply, and Tim realizes he probably just saw the blood on his teeth or his lips, but what was he gonna do about it now? He could feel it beginning to trickle down his chin and snake across the edge of his jaw, sharp with the bones that always seemed to show through his skin. Tim coughs, and he feels it begin to drip faster, thickening the red line down his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he’s tired. It’s been a long, long road, and of course now, just when Tim’s family has finally pieced itself back together, he’s going to shatter it all over again. He just hopes they won’t fall apart. He hopes Dick will talk to someone about it, will not blame himself, will not shut them all out and have to bear the weight of his collapsing world entirely on his shoulders, and he hopes that Dick Grayson keeps flying on that trapeze. He hopes Jason will take another Robin’s death in a warehouse as a reason to treasure what he has, not to hate the bats, and he hopes that he finds everything he wants in his life, because he deserves to be happy. He hopes Cass will continue her speech lessons, if only for him, and he hopes one day she’ll be able to sit and tell stories around a campfire with her own team and be able to smile and tell them she loves them and mean it. He hopes Steph will move on, find somebody who she loves and who loves her, who treats her better than vigilante Tim ever could, and he hopes she lets them in. He hopes Barbara will think of him sometimes, of the little brother who she taught so much about computers and strategy and warmth, of all the Young Justice missions they laughed about for hours and all the pranks they pulled on their teammates, and he hopes she’ll become someone’s mentor, because she would be great. He hopes Alfred still hangs his stocking on the mantle at Christmas, not out of sorrow or spite, but because sometimes it’s nice to remember, and he hopes everyone else takes it as a nice memory, too. He hopes Bruce keeps his head up, lets himself love and be loved, mourns with his family instead of brooding on rooftops. And he hopes that Damian keeps watching, learning, growing, drawing, humming, fighting, living, and he hopes that someday he’ll have kids of his own and be able to give them everything he never had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes they’ll all be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sharp pain stabs at his side and Tim’s eyes -- he doesn’t think he’d closed them -- jolt open with a hissed groan. They roll back and all around for a moment and he struggles to pull himself back again. He tells himself to focus on the pain, on the sensation, let it bring him out of whatever fog had just passed over his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drake,” comes a slightly-wobbly voice from his left, and he looks over to see his little brother kneeling beside him, one hand pressing cruelly into the torn flesh of his wound. Oh. That’s why it hurt so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dami,” Tim whispers, blinking over unfocused eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here,” Damian says, and the gentleness in the words confuses Tim. Damian isn’t usually so nice to him. “I’m here, Tim.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart swells and he wishes he could cherish the feeling; Damian just called him Tim. Unfortunately, he’s on the clock here, running on borrowed time. “You ‘kay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian seems to flinch slightly, which is also a thing Tim is pretty sure he’s never seen him do. Huh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I’m fine, you imbecile,” Damian replies. There he is. “You… Drake… T-Tim, I need your assistance to get you out of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim was out of it, but he wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>out of it. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew he wasn’t getting out of here, Damian’s help or no. He could hear gunfire in the distance; he wouldn’t bog the boy down with his deadweight when there were clearly dangerous people about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim shakes his head. “You n-need… to go,” he wheezes. Why was it so hard to breathe? Damian’s eyes widened in surprise before melting into even greater concern than before. He must’ve heard the odd whistle in his lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian’s eyes harden. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks. “W… what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Damian repeats, stronger this time. He moves around to his right and takes Tim’s hands in his, flattening them over the torn wound and covering them with his own. He presses himself to Tim’s side, his torso so saturated with blood that his whole uniform is darker, and forces pressure onto the wound, using his positioning as both a lever and a comfort. Tim gasps raggedly, not missing the whistle as it drifts past his lips again. Damian shifts enough to look him in his glassy eyes, staring fiercely back with his own. Tim focuses on them, forest green, forest green -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>just like Bruce </span>
  </em>
  <span>-- and sees… tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks and looks again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears. In Damian’s eyes. Trailing down his cheeks, sliding off his lashes to the concrete beneath them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim is happy to see them. He knows that’s wrong, given the circumstances, but he can’t help but think of how much this kid has grown in the four years they’ve known him. Still, Tim </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a big brother, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a job to do, even if he can’t really move in any way to do it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He settles for tilting his forehead against Damian’s. The kid leans into it, presses back desperately, choking on a tiny sob that by all accounts never should’ve come out of his mouth, least of all for Tim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he whispers, as gently as he can. He needs to make this count. “I-It’s all gonna… be okay, Dami. It’s g’nna be okay, but I n-need you to get… to get out, okay? P-promise me you’ll make it out.” He peels open his eyes and forces himself to focus, willing his body not to give out on him, not yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian’s eyes are shining, full of swirling, raging emotions. His voice is blatantly pleading. “N-no, Tim, no, I can’t… I can’t leave you here, I don’t… I-I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to leave you here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, Dami, I’m s-sorry,” Tim says, forcing his remaining strength into his voice. “But you… you have to. I need you t-to be safe.” He smiles. “I love you so much, Little Bird.” He thinks about apologizing for everything he’s done wrong with this poor kid, but he doesn’t want his last memories of his predecessor to be tainted with the past. Instead, he says what he really feels, what he’s pretty sure Damian has never heard in his life. The kid’s eyes are pinched, tears flowing freely. “I’m so, so proud of you. Of how f-far you’ve come, of how… how hard you’re working. I’m so proud of you, little brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian’s eyes are blown wide with shock, and he’s frozen to the spot; it looks like a breeze could push him over. Tim can’t help but give a small laugh. He’s going to be okay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets his eyes roll closed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian watches Tim laugh and then watches his eyes fall shut, blocking off that deep, icy blue that seemed to stare into his very soul, stealing away the twinkling, genuine glint hidden in them that told Damian that he’d really meant what he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m so, so proud of you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No, no, no, T-Tim, Tim, no…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s left of his logical brain yells at him that that obviously won’t work, and Damian snaps forward, one hand flying to the pulse point on Drake’s throat while the other continues pressing down on the wound. After a horrible moment, he feels a beat, racing and thready, like a beetle scuttling around in a tin can. Damian presses into his wound again, but it just bleeds more, and he curses Drake’s lack of reaction as he rips another gauze pack from his belt and folds it over the red-soaked others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He uses his free arm to squeeze around Drake’s shoulders, keeping his hand steady on the back of his head as he carefully half-lifts his brother to lie flat on the concrete floor. He scoffs aloud, but it wavers, tears still running down his cheeks. When had he started thinking of Drake as his brother? But… it’s true, isn’t it? It is. It feels right, and if Damian has learned anything from Grayson, and he has, it’s that feelings matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re an imbecile,” he mutters to the still form, situating himself to be able to sit by his side and keep pressure on the wound with both hands. He shakes his head, droplets of salty water flying around him with the motion. He tries again. “You’re a complete and utter moron, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Drake</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He spits the name out like it tastes foul in his mouth as anger wells up in his chest. “Didn’t you hear me?” He snaps, staring at the closed eyes as if that alone might open them again. “I called you an imbecile! A moron! A total idiot!” Drake doesn’t move. Damian bares his teeth. He knows his voice is getting louder; if the goons are still over there, he’s sure they’ll find him and kill him soon. He doesn’t care. “That’s an </span>
  <em>
    <span>insult! </span>
  </em>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>insulted </span>
  </em>
  <span>you! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wake up </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>defend yourself!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing but a tightness, a pain in his chest. He doesn’t recognize it. The beetle in the can is tiring, slowing down, and a scream rips itself from Damian’s chest, so torn and ragged that he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Wake </span>
  <em>
    <span>up!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He screams, removing one hand from the wound and reaching to hit something, anything, but there’s nothing but Tim, and he won’t hurt him ever again. He presses his hand back down. “Wake </span>
  <em>
    <span>up! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wake </span>
  <em>
    <span>up! Wake up! Wake up!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He drags in a heaving breath and it flies back out of him as a sob, followed by another, two more, five, until he’s screaming and crying and trembling with his head buried against his brother’s chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please… Akhi, please, please, no… please don’t go…” He feels the beetle rattle to a stop, and the pain in his chest explodes into nerve-shattering anguish.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No! No, no, nononononono, please, please, no, Tim, Akhi, come back, please, oh, god… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please come back, please, Akhi… Akhi…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes himself suddenly, remembering his training, his entire life up to this point, and he’ll have to think later about how this one person managed to undo all that just now, but right now he’s busy rhythmically pushing into his brother’s chest, pinching his nose and forcing air down his trachea, begging a million gods he doesn’t believe in to save his brother. Just this once, just this </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>time, he begs, let him keep one of the only good things he has. Let him make things right, let him bring him home to their family, let him give Drake a reason to keep being proud of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just given his sixth breath, ninety compressions, when he feels a shift under his hands. At first, he thinks he’s broken Drake’s ribs, and grief threatens to overwhelm him, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course </span>
  </em>
  <span>he couldn’t stop hurting Drake, not even when he was dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then there’s a faint, sharp whistling sound, so short he barely catches it until he hears it again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twice. He hears it twice. That means Drake didn’t only breathe; he’s breath</span>
  <em>
    <span>ing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian looks down and watches Drake huff out a few bloody coughs, and before he knows that he’s moving, Damian is carefully rolling his brother onto his side to face him, making sure the blood dribbling out of his mouth, which is not a good thing, doesn’t start filling up his lungs, which is an even less good thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian is shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion and every emotion he’s never had to face, and all he can do is rest one hand against his brother’s blissfully present pulse and bury his face in his upturned side, using his other arm to pull him closer, hoping that the combination of the floor and Drake’s weight was doing just as much as he was to hold pressure on the now sluggishly-oozing wound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few seconds later, though, the thought of the goons occurs to him, and he curses himself for his negligence and Tim for being distracting as he darts unsteadily on his knees the few feet across the floor to the crate, glancing back every few seconds, and when he finally risks a glance over, he feels his jaw fall open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nobody there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How is that possible? That’s not-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears the whistle behind him and, for the first time, abandons the detective work instantly. He appears again by Tim’s side and checks him over, finding no change since his brief excursion, and settles his head back against his brother’s side, this time with his head turned sideways to press his ear to the side of his chest. He can hear his heart beating, still weak, but there, and not as painfully fast. He hears the whistle in his lungs, too, but it doesn’t seem to be getting any worse, so he just focuses on the fact that there’s breathing happening at all and works on slowing down his own heart rate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, two seconds later, there’s a shout echoing from beyond the open door to the room, multiple heavy sets of footsteps, and Damian feels panic flood his exhausted veins again as he quickly shifts Drake as close to the crate as possible, hoping to keep him hidden in case Damian needs to fight. He crouches over Drake, for some reason feeling the tears well back up behind his eyes as he listens to the footsteps pounding closer, closer, closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They make it through the door, echoing less in the open space. Damian holds his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are they here, Oracle?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian freezes. He knows that voice. Of course he knows that voice. Grayson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hood, Orphan, you take the left. B, take the right. Spoiler and I will take the back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were all there. They had come for them. Damian glances down at his emergency beacon, still blinking on his belt. Whatever was interfering with the comms apparently didn’t affect the beacon as he thought it would. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank god.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of him, an untrained, childish part, wants to shoot to his feet and dive over the crate and let Grayson hug him like he’s always trying to. But he knows he has to check, to double-check, to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s sure before he lets anyone anywhere near Drake. If he got injured again, it was over. For good this time. Damian shudders at the thought, pausing to squeeze Tim’s shoulder as tightly as he dares, and then goes about scanning all of them with his wrist computer while their backs are turned. The second it beeps a confirmation, he reaches down and feels for Drake’s pulse, and it’s there, and relief washes over him like nothing he’s ever felt before. They made it. In two seconds flat, his legs quake and give out, knees buckling beneath him as he falls back down at Tim’s side. His mind is hazy, half filled with panic and half with euphoria, and he feels like he could bounce off the walls or sleep for a week or maybe do both at once. He tilts his head back, eyes trained on the shitty sprinklers on the ceiling. He would need to write some authority a letter about that. He smiles wildly, green eyes rattling like marbles in a bowl, like one of those bug-eyed fake skeletons in a science classroom, like Drake’s eyes right before he </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking died. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, god…</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>Damian lets his mouth fall open. “Help,” he calls weakly to the sprinklers, and suddenly there’s shouting everywhere around him, and Richard is rounding the corner with everyone else at his back and they’re all rushing forward, and people are running back outside to get a gurney, and Cain is gently pulling him away from Drake and he fights her, cries and flails and screams until he’s exhausted and slumps in her arms. Cain carries him into the Batwing, trailing listlessly behind the gurney bearing Drake -- no, bearing </span><em><span>Tim, </span></em><span>because this was </span><em><span>Tim, </span></em><span>his </span><em><span>brother, </span></em><span>not some military comrade he had to treat with distance and disdain</span> <span>-- as he’s hooked up to a hundred tubes and machines and cut out of his suit, and Damian wants to yell at them because they </span><em><span>know </span></em><span>that Tim designed that suit himself and he would be mad at them for ruining it.</span></p><p>
  <span>On the plane, Cain -- Cassandra, his sister -- Cassandra wraps him in a blanket and places him in a seat by himself, and she sits one seat away as they all always do because Damian doesn’t like to be so close, except that he does, he so badly does, but he can’t break past the need to appear indifferent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian isn’t indifferent. Damian isn’t what his mother made him. Damian has come so far from that; it’s time for him to keep going forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly, so that he can’t change his mind even though he knows that he won’t, he slides off his seat and shakily walks the two steps to where Cassandra is sitting with a tense version of her standard loungey posture, gaze a thousand miles away, and Damian pokes her knee with his hand still curled in the blanket. She breaks her stare and looks at him, a tired, sad smile making its way to her face. He gives her a look, and she’s startled, because of course she can tell what he’s thinking, she just doesn’t expect it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she opens her arms with that same soft smile, and Damian climbs up onto her lap and loops his arms around her neck and feels hers hugging him back, and he lets his head rest on her shoulder as he finally drains of every last ounce of adrenaline and drifts into a dreamless sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass keeps her arms locked around him for the entire ride, and if, when they get to the Manor, she carries her little brother inside and finds a new seat to let him keep sleeping, well, that’s her business, isn’t it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim is still attached to a million tubes and machines and needles, but now he’s at least stable, and that’s really all Damian can ask for. Once they started working, it was clear that the bullet must have gone in at an angle, because the entry wound was in his torso and they found the bullet embedded in the top of his right lung. They take it out, patch the hole it left behind, clear the fluid (blood) from his lungs, give him three transfusions, set him on an IV filled with fluids and antibiotics because this idiot has no spleen, bandage his wound, make him comfortable, or as comfortable as they could. The pillow under his head is almost as white as his face, and he’s gaunt, sunken, but that grey-blue shadow of death underneath his skin seems to have been forced out. Slowly, Tim is filtering back in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian has been sleeping in the chair by Tim’s medical bay bed, and his siblings eventually give up on trying to get him into a real bed and settle for progressively replacing the chair he’s in with more and more comfortable ones, until they somehow manage to drag one of the huge overstuffed armchairs from the library all the way down to the cave. They take shifts of vigils over their younger brothers, though many of them end up overlapping all at once, and they sit and tell quiet stories about Tim or their childhoods or tales they’d read or heard from someone else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s warmth in Damian’s chest these days, none of the ripping pain he had felt in the warehouse. It’s a nice feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right now, though, his chest is conflicted; he can feel the warmth warring with the pain as he holds drooping eyes on Tim’s heart rate monitor. He’s sitting half asleep on Richard’s lap, leaning his head on his chest and reveling in the closeness of it all, in the way Richard is stroking his hair and not questioning his sudden need for contact. He breathes softly into the sleepy haze surrounding them, airy and smooth, until Richard’s quiet voice gently brings him to the surface. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did good, Dami. I’m proud of you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian tenses, the pleasant haze gone in a flash as pain wins the war and flares up in his chest. Richard, of course, notices, and tightens his arms around his little brother, brow creasing with concern and confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, Dami…” he soothes, “what’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian knows he’s shaking, if only slightly, and he feels the pricks of horribly familiar adrenaline snap at his skin. His skin is too loose and too tight and covered in blood that isn’t his, that’s Tim’s, and Tim is lying on the cold concrete floor in front of him, the brilliant light fading from his eyes as they fall open, glassy and unseeing, and his final breath rattles out of him and his head lolls to one side like he isn’t thinking about it, but that doesn’t make sense, because Tim thinks about everything, is always aware of himself and his surroundings, and why would that change now? Why would anything change now? Why should Damian change now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damian,” comes an urgent but calm voice above him, and he snaps back to himself, suddenly aware of the tears gliding down his cheeks and of his death grip on the front of Richard’s shirt. “Breathe, Dami. With me, in and out.” Damian copies his brother’s pattern, or tries to, getting less than halfway to a full inhale but it’s more than he had a second ago, so he’ll take it. He tries again, and again, and his breaths stretch out longer and longer until he’s exhausted and slumped in Richard’s arms, air flowing near-smoothly through his lungs. “You’re okay…” Richard was saying softly, encouraging and kind as always. “You’re okay… you’re doing great… I’ve got you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian swallows hard, his mind going blank except for one thought. He removes it, lets the blankness overtake everything, cooling and soothing and gentle. “T-Tim said he was proud of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard pauses, and though Damian can’t see it, he knows a small smile is creeping up over his face. He rubs circles with his thumb against Damian’s temple, and it feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>loving </span>
  </em>
  <span>that Damian wants to cry all over again, so he does, letting tears flow from his eyes, no more dam to keep them pent up. They're free. He’s free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course he’s proud of you, Damian,” Richard says quietly, regarding Tim’s sleeping form with a fond smile. Damian wasn’t the only one who had come a long way. “We all are. We’re all so, so proud of you, Dami.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian sniffles, then slowly nods and wraps his little arms as far around his brother as they can go, and Richard hugs him back with fierce comfort and care as he always does. Damian pauses and another horrible thought overtakes the blankness. “I had to restart his heart,” he whispers, voice hoarse with tears, icy terror gripping his veins. Before Richard can say anything, Damian looks up at him, eyes huge and petrified, and he’s suddenly struck by the reality that Damian is, in fact, a child. “R-Richard, what if… what if he thought I hated him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard’s face doesn’t fall in the slightest, eyes full of that trademark easy confidence and words strong and unshakable. “Tim knows you like him, Damian. And he likes you. Why would he be so proud of you if he didn’t?” Richard gives him a kind smile, the kind reserved only for his family. “Maybe he used to think you hated him, like in the beginning, but the reason he’s so proud of you is exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>because</span>
  </em>
  <span> he knows you like him. There was a time when you couldn’t do that, with anyone, not just Tim. He’s proud of you because you’ve grown so much that he knows you love him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian blinks. How the hell would Tim have known that? It was true, of course, he’s willing to admit that, but it’s not like Damian has ever treated him particularly well. Sure, at this point he keeps up the insults just for the ease of it, the familiarity, but Tim couldn’t know that… could he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In that moment, Damian makes a decision: if he really stands on this side of the fence, really stands with this much to lose, then he might as well make the time he has count. He tries to look at Richard, he really does, but maybe he’s not quite there yet. That’s fine; he’ll make it someday. He settles for staring at his own hands fidgeting in his lap. They look small and clumsy, suddenly, like the hands of a child. Hm. No matter how mushy Damian lets himself get, he sure as hell isn't a child — a </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>child</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>whatever that means. But he’s surrounded by people who know that and take care of him anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He exhales carefully. “Richard?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard seems to freeze for a second, and Damian refuses to allow the icy feeling that he’s made a terrible mistake to creep into the warmth in his chest, but then Richard looks at him with nothing hiding behind his eyes, just shining blue more open than Damian has ever seen, and maybe a little wetter than normal, and he flashes Damian a huge, genuine grin brighter than the sun and he holds him tight against his chest and buries his face in his little brother’s hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, too,” he says, joy and laughter bleeding into his tone. “I love you so much, Damian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian wraps his arms around his brother’s neck and holds on tight, his nose pressed into the crook of his shoulder, and he can smell vanilla and Alfred’s oatmeal cookies and it’s more </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span> than he’s ever felt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard laughs, a glittering, comfortable sound, and arranges Damian so that he can rest his head on his shoulder without hurting his neck. “Get some sleep, little brother. We’ll both still be here when you wake up.” He grins again. “I’m so proud of you,” he mumbles, almost to himself, and presses a kiss to the top of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian sleeps. Richard’s chest is warm, just like his.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s eyes roll open the same way they rolled shut, slow and hazy and more confused than they probably should be. There’s a steady beeping coming from over his left shoulder, and he can feel the immaculate folds of pressed sheets with his toes. The strong tang of rubbing alcohol pricks at his nose, but it’s mixed with the drifting scent of oatmeal and fabric softener. He must be in the medbay, he’d know the smell anywhere, but damn, what did he do this time?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim shifts his head, trying to slide his eyes open a bit more effectively, and while that doesn’t work, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>met with a voice, familiar, but edged with a timidity Tim has never heard in it before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“T-Tim?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he could, Tim would be scrunching his nose up in thought right now. Damian? What was he doing here? Why did he call him by his first name? He’s never called—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait. Yes he has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all comes back to him in a rush, the tingling numbness overtaking his limbs, the cold concrete under his lax fingers, the wet, slithering feeling of the blood running down his jaw, the look on Damian’s face when he told him he was proud of him, like it was the most unfathomable thing in the world. Damian pleading with him, refusing to leave him behind, letting himself cry and hurt and feel, calling him Tim and the happy swell of Tim’s heart that came with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Tim had definitely passed out back there, and definitely left his little brother to handle all fifty-some-odd of those goons all by himself; it would’ve been impossible for him to beat them and bring Tim back to the cave at the same time. The others must’ve found him somehow, gotten him back here on their own. So if Tim is here… then where is—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damian!” Tim cries aloud, eyes flying open and trying to jolt upright, though he immediately regrets it when his raw throat and aching chest scream at him and send pain washing through his body. With a groan, he falls back against the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut and ignoring the two lightning-quick tears that streak out of each of their outer corners as he tries his best to settle and breathe through it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the wave finally breaks and the pain begins to die down, Tim lets out a relieved breath and relaxes, only just noticing the calming feeling of a small hand petting his hair. “Shh,” says that same voice, oddly soothing considering what it usually says, “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here, Tim.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brain connects some dots and his eyes fly open again, though he forces himself to remain flat on the bed. In an instant, he’s met with a pair of intense forest green eyes, eyes he knows so well because they belong to both his father and his brother, and he feels a disbelieving breath claw its way up through his throat and through his lips. “...Damian?” He whispers, wincing at the soreness in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kid’s eyes suddenly grow watery and he nods, wobbling a grin his way. “It’s me, Tim.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim laughs, short and airy and amazed, and he doesn’t even care that it hurts like a bitch because Damian was here and alive and smiling at him and it was all so real so suddenly that Tim couldn’t stop the tears welling up again, not from pain this time but from sheer, incredulous gratitude. “You… you’re okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian lets his own tears fall, too, and it shocks Tim a little even though he saw Damian do it the last time he was awake, too.  “I’m okay,” he whispers. He pauses then, considers Tim carefully for a moment before taking a few shuffling steps forward and climbing up onto the left side of his bed, positioning himself carefully along Tim’s uninjured side and tucking his head between his chin and collar bone, checking all the whole for any sign that he might be causing him pain or discomfort. He receives none, so he settles down, and Tim takes his left arm and wraps it around his little brother’s back and rests it there, and Damian knows it’ll be hard for him to keep it there by himself so he reaches up with his own right hand and tangles their fingers together, holding the hug carefully in place with the same caution and gentleness that he uses when handling baby animals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minutes pass, and Tim is almost asleep again so he almost misses it when Damian quietly says, “I love you, Akhi. And I…I-I’m proud of you, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim’s heart melts despite himself, and then swells again with warmth. Normally, he would probably be scoffing, muttering something about how he didn’t need </span>
  <em>
    <span>Damian’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>approval, but he has to admit that something in him goes soaring with happiness when he hears those words. It means so much more to him than he ever expected; Damian means so much more to him than he ever expected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really scared me, Akhi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim tightens his arm around his little brother’s resting form. "I know. I'm here, Dami. I'm not going anywhere." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damian nods slowly and pauses. He seems to be thinking hard. Before Tim can ask, the boy says, "I will be writing a strongly-worded letter to the city about the state of building code in the warehouse district." Tim can hear the frown in his voice. "The sprinklers are an abject failure." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim can't help but bark a laugh, barely feeling the small wave of pain that sweeps through his chest. “I love you too, Dami,” he says, and lets himself drift back to sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Jason comes down to the medbay an hour or so later to check up on Tim, he’s startled to find not just one but both of his little brothers squeezed into the same bed, Damian curled up like a cat at Tim’s side and one of Tim’s arms keeping him firmly in place. They look… peaceful. Of course, </span>
  <em>
    <span>peaceful </span>
  </em>
  <span>by their definition usually means </span>
  <em>
    <span>not trying to murder each other, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but this time they looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>peaceful </span>
  </em>
  <span>peaceful. Real peaceful, comfortable and warm and sleepy. Jason allows himself a moment of restfulness; maybe this dumbass family will finally pull itself together, after all.</span>
</p><p><span>His fond smile turns into a wicked grin as he turns and begins the walk back up the stairs to the Manor. Just because the family is bonding doesn’t mean he’s gonna pass up an opportunity like this. “Dick!” He shouts loudly into the foyer, knowing the sound will carry through the house. “Tell everyone to get over here,</span> <span>and bring a camera; there’s something you guys need to see!”</span></p>
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